


Long Distance

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jemma at Hydra, fixing friendship, friends to lovers IDK?!?!?, s2 rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8412130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Rewrite of beginning of Season 2. Fitz finds out that Jemma is undercover at Hydra sooner than in canon and gets in contact with her. Through secure lines, secret messages, and clandestine meetings, they try to fix their friendship and figure out whether there's a possibility for more. Rating subject to change but probably gonna stay T.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is still very much an idea-in-progress, so bear with me! Chapters probably gonna be short and updates irregular. Because all my WIPs and drabble requests are not gonna write themselves and as most of you know I'm kind of off doing a big thing right now XD

The morning is unremarkable, except that Jemma hits snooze just once, which she hardly ever does, meaning she’ll have to grab tea on the way rather than brewing it herself. But if she’d not been late, she would have missed the call on her secure S.H.I.E.L.D. line.

“Hello?” she answers breathlessly on the third ring, sweeping her coat off the rack.

“Simmons?”

She has been so busy anticipating the nightmare of being discovered, has so vividly imagined how Hydra might barge into her apartment at night or strike her down in the middle of the lab or blow up her favorite lunch spot just to send a message, has tangled herself into this world so thoroughly that she has forgotten that there are scenarios which are infinitely more devastating. Infinitely more likely to bring her to her knees, to shake the foundations of this precarious existence.

She sinks into the nearest chair, one shaking hand over her mouth. Only Coulson has called her on this line, if she hadn’t heard his voice and now his breathing (she knows it is his breathing, needs nothing more to identify him), she wouldn’t believe it, but—

“Fitz?” she croaks out. If the line is, improbably, tapped, they will already be made. So why not say his name at last?

“Si-Sim—What were you th—How could y-you—“

She has been telling herself for weeks that she will use the time away from Fitz to figure out the words whose meaning she feels but cannot express. Now he is here, on her phone, in her apartment, with all the questions he deserves to have answered.

“Fitz, I’m _so sorry_ ,” she gushes, automatically, then winces, because that tact won’t repair anything. “No, I’m not. I still think this was the right decision. But I regret – I regret so much, I—“

“ _Simmo—“_

“And I wanted to leave a note with May for you but honestly what good is a note and I would’ve been in touch but you understand the limitations of this situation—“

“Simmons, j-just—“

“and I’m assured you’re getting excellent care, and Coulson speaks highly of that new mechanic, he—“

“JEMMA!”

His shout makes her jump. But anger is good. He deserves to be angry.

Fitz’s breathing is louder, more shaky, in the silence that envelopes them. She imagines his fist clenched on Coulson’s desk – surely that is where they are, surely he has barged in and demanded communication – his eyes squeezed shut in fury, maybe even hatred. The other reason she hasn’t been thinking of this eventuality amidst the swamp of troubles Hydra brings is because she sees no way in which he does not blame her. Does not hate her.

“Jemma,” he repeats, quietly, determinedly. “A-are you sa-sa—“ He growls in frustration and starts again. “Tell me you’re okay.”

She has to cover the receiver on the phone so he will not hear her whimper. The phrase comes out cleanly, unbroken by his usual stammers, like he’s repeated it. Practiced it. Just as she’s been whispering it to the picture of him on her phone every night for the past weeks.

This unity across the distance makes her want to tell him everything. Coulson is kind but he is not her best friend, and she very much wants to talk to her best friend. She would tell him how her supervisor still doesn’t like her, though her work is far superior to that of the _actual_ Hydra scientists. She would regale him with the excitement of the new city, the exploration of which is the bright spot in this lonely life. She would tentatively reveal the knots which twist her stomach every morning on the way to work and don’t leave until she’s locked the door of her apartment behind her at night. She would joke about the recurring nightmare in which she looks down to find a knife in her abdomen and chides her attacker on their clear lack of research as to the best way to assassinate someone.

She opens her mouth to invite Fitz into this mess with her, and then she remembers why she left in the first place. Because her own life, her own needs, her own priorities, were steamrolling Fitz’s recovery. Because he would always place her before himself, and maybe they both need to learn to do without that.

The farther she gets from him, the more she is certain she is wrong.

But still, she lies.

“I’m fine,” she assures him, smiling to give her voice more cheer than her tears would convey. “You know, not eating as well as I should but Coulson’s already on my case for that. How about you?”

She is an hour late to work, but she has to redo her make-up before she can return to a world that doesn’t know the first thing of Leo Fitz or that he’s brilliant and resilient and stubborn as an ox and frankly ridiculous or that he seems to want his best friend back. But Jemma knows, and the knowledge is a little flame in her chest the rest of the day.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to chinesebakery for encouragement and betaing and sanity.

“Just a line.”

“No,” Coulson said again, closing the folder he’d been studying.

“Just a ph-phrase. Four words.”

“You sure you don’t mean a four-letter word?” He sighed. “The answer remains no, Agent Fitz. You’re lucky our organization has gone dark so I can’t report you to higher authorities for your breach.” Catching the look on Fitz’s face, he added, “Okay, lucky probably isn’t the word any of us would use to describe Hydra operatives taking over SHIELD from the inside, in the process killing many of our friends and forcing us to scuttle about in the shadows, but really, Fitz? Using a secure line for a personal call?”

“I deserved to know,” Fitz muttered. The time had passed for being properly abashed. Now self-righteous anger seemed called for.

“Why? Because Agent Simmons is your friend?” Coulson demanded. “Unfortunately, Agent Fitz, _friend_ is not a viable ranking in this agency.”

“She could have been d—She could have d—What if something happened?” Fitz said desperately.

“Then you would’ve found out at the same time as the rest of SHIELD. What if that line hadn’t been encrypted? You could’ve endangered not only the mission but Jemma’s _life_ , do you understand that?”

“Of course I knew it was encrypted,” Fitz said sullenly, slumping back into his chair. “I know you all think I’m b-broken,” –here he tapped his head—“but I’m not a fool.”

As always happened when Fitz referenced his injury, Coulson grew grave and quiet. He adjusted the watch on his wrist and considered his cufflinks for a long moment. At last he stood and murmured, “Just keep working on the cloaking, Agent Fitz.”

Skye was waiting in the doorway of the lab, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Really, AC? _Friend is not a viable ranking in this agency?_ ”

Coulson closed his eyes, praying for patience, then turned back into the room. “Fitz. You can have one line. Four words, I’m holding you to that. Get Skye to encrypt it and don’t change anything about the main message.”

 

The next covert message to Jemma Simmons, Hydra scientist, contained a post-script.

_Why did you leave?_

 

“Got something for you,” Skye said breezily, a few days later, leaning against Fitz’s lab bench. (He was working on accepting it as his, even though it was too shiny, not enough burn marks, not broken-in like their equipment in the old lab.) “You sure you want this?”

His hand curled around the shell of his ear in a defensive gesture, but he stuck his chin out, the better to appear determined or at the very least unaffected. “I’m s-s--- Yes.”

“No, I mean, you sure you want _this_?” She dangled the thin screen in front of him, wrinkling her nose. “Had to dig it out of a trash can. Why Coulson thinks this is a good idea—Save the world, give all your agents cholera.”

“That’s – that’s not how cholera works,” Fitz frowned, taking it from her. “I think.”

“Well. Anyway. I didn’t peek, so no worries on that.”

She squeezed him on the shoulder and left him alone to read Jemma’s response, encrypted at the bottom of her field report.

_F.—This is certainly not a conversation I want to have through this mode of communication, not least of all because in text it’s nearly impossible to discern someone’s tone. You, yourself, are notoriously poor at giving the recipient indicators of how you intend a message to be interpreted. This particular question could be confused, could be accusatory, could be asked as by a friend who’s forgotten something and merely wants help recalling. As you’ve given me nothing to go on, I’ll choose to believe you’re merely curious. Please believe me when I say that I left simply because there was a mission and I was most qualified to undertake it. After all SHIELD has done for me, for us, I felt it was the least I could do. –S._

Fitz crumpled the screen in his shaking fist. Jemma might not be able to decipher tone in writing, but _he_ could certainly tell when she was lying.

 

 

  1. _~~– Seems like a coward’s way out.~~_
  2. _~~– So you thought abandoning all your friends when they needed you most was the least you could do?~~_
  3. _~~– At least now I know what your priorities are, even if they don’t make any bloody sense.~~_
  4. _~~– I miss you.~~_



One benefit, at least, of not speaking to Jemma on the phone was that it gave him time to get the words right.

  1. _– Glad to hear you’ve made peace with the decision. Forgive me if it takes me a little longer to catch up. As I’m sure you know, I’m a little ‘slow’ since the accident. Oh wait, you wouldn’t know that, would you? Because you gave up on me.–F._



Skye gave him a look as she encrypted the message, a look meant to make him feel guilty, but she didn’t say anything.

 

  1. _– There is not time enough nor space enough on a dozen of these missives to elucidate the arrogant erroneousness of your message. Peace with my decision? No. But I’ve learned to accept the reality we live in. I suggest you do the same. –S._



She’d not answered most of his accusations, but he could read between the lines. The Jemma he hallucinated every day filled in the gaps for him – though whether with his own thoughts or with what Jemma would actually say, were she here, he no longer knew. ‘You’re still down there in the Pod,’ she suggested gently. ‘You’re drowning in self-pity. But you’re right. I _did_ give up on you. I need to swim up, Fitz. You’re a part of my past and you’ll just drag me down. I have to move on.’

“Fitz!” Coulson strode into the lab, interrupting Fitz’s train of thought. “I need you to—“

“You can tell J-J— _Simmons_ ,” Fitz snarled, “that—“

“I’m not an owl,” Coulson cut him off sharply, slamming his fist down on a lab table. Fitz jumped, as did the lab techs who suddenly found a need to scurry out of the room.

“What?” Fitz asked blankly.

“I’m not an –” Coulson sighed. “Did I do that right? You kids still quote _Harry Potter_ , don’t you?”

“The – the books, mostly, and that’s from the fi – the movies—”

“You get my point, though.” Coulson tugged the screen out of Fitz’s tense grip. “I’m not letting you use my messages to berate Simmons for trying to help everyone. We all have some crap to work out, Agent Fitz, but not like this. Come back to me when you have a real question, about _real_ SHIELD business.”

 

 

 

Fitz had largely avoided the common areas since the accident. He would sneak in for food when the others were in meetings or on missions; he had taken to watching TV on his laptop rather than sharing the couch with his friends on Saturday evenings. It was easier that way. He didn’t feel like talking much, and he didn’t like the way they all looked at him.

So he stood outside the kitchen for a while, watching Skye eat cornflakes and peruse the news on her phone, because crossing the threshold with the express purpose of talking to someone felt like an action that could put him in bed for the rest of the day.

“How long have you known?” he asked finally, hoarsely, moving just around the door frame and staying there, as far from her as possible.

She didn’t ask for clarification. Her spoon hovered above the surface of the milk, and then she lowered it and looked at him. Her voice was cautious, and he couldn’t fault her for that: they’d not properly talked, not shared more than a few sentences, in months. “Most of the time since she’s been gone. First couple weeks I thought she was visiting her parents, same as you, but then Coulson needed me to do some tampering with her data footprint and he brought me in on it.”

“And you agreed with him? That I didn’t need to be inf—that I didn’t need to know? Didn’t I have a _right_ to know?”

“And then what, Fitz?” Skye asked, resignation in her voice and in the minuscule shrug of her shoulders, like she’d asked herself this same question. “What good would knowing do? You can’t see her, you can’t work with her, you weren’t even supposed to contact her, so nothing would’ve changed.”

“Except it’d be nice to know she hadn’t – we weren’t -- that I wasn’t _abandoned_ –”

“Jemma would never—“

“But she did! You all did!” Usually when angry, Fitz found it harder to communicate, but this conversation was one he’d been having with himself for weeks. The words were so familiar that it required nothing to release them now that he’d let the anger in. “I needed her, and you, and everyone, but everyone left me!”

“That’s not why—“ Skye leaned forward and spoke urgently. “Fitz, I don’t know exactly why Jemma left, or why anyone else is acting the way they are, but I’ve been giving you space because you _don’t_ need us – not to baby you or be a crutch or whatever. You’re still just as smart and loyal and funny and weird and capable. I know that and I didn’t want to stand in the way of you proving that to everyone else. That’s – that’s what I would want, if it were me, so…”

He shoved his trembling hands into the pockets of his cardigan, keeping his eyes trained on the floor, and choked out, “I don’t need people to – to prop me up or tie my – do up my laces or help me dismantle computer processors. That’s not what I meant. I – I need you all to be _here_. To be my _friends._ Because – I might be different but I don’t want _that_ to change. _”_

 “Oh, _Fitz_ ,” Skye whispered, and she knocked over her stool as she stood and moved towards him.

“Don’t – please don’t hug me,” he grunted, fending her off. “I don’t want – I’m not ready for that.”

“Sorry,” Skye said immediately, but she was smiling and crying a little bit. “What can I do instead?”

“Um, would you—“ He hadn’t come here to ask her for this, but it flowed to the forefront of his mind like he’d been waiting for the idea to finish blossoming. “Can you – help me fix things with Jemma?”

 

 

 

  1. _– Do you remember the file number for a device I was working on last year? It involved modifying that thing the traitor and I disabled from that time he threw your sandwich away. My memories don’t really hang together like they used to and I thought it might be faster to ask you rather than scouring through the entire database._



_P.S. Had a breakthrough on the tech that will make us able to do what Harry does with what he inherits from his father. Thought you’d like to know._

_P.P.S. Had a good talk with Mary Sue. (She says hi.) Made me realize there are a lot of misunderstandings in the air right now. But I think I’m ready to listen. –F._

  1. _– As I recall that was about the time you developed your Mouserat device—_



“Mousehole,” Fitz corrected automatically under his breath.

… _The file number should therefore be in the range of the square of the sum of our birthdays and the multiple of the number of aunts I have and the number of species of birds on the African continent. Hope this helps._

_P.S. Harry Potter is no longer a viable code; please choose a more obscure reference next time. But I’m proud of you._

_P.P.S. So am I. –S_

“Got something for you.”

Fitz was used to hearing these words by now, and his heart leapt a bit every time a new message came from Jemma – just as much as his stomach twisted, his uncertainty spiking.

But Coulson wasn’t holding one of the paper-thin screens Jemma and SHIELD had been passing back and forth for weeks.

“Skye helped me put this together,” he explained, leaning over Fitz to type a quick phrase into the searchbar. “Secure server. Disguised as a gaming chatroom, translates everything into nerd-typical gibberish to anyone but the two authorized parties.”

“Two—?”

“You’ve got one access code – Agent Simmons has the other. Thought it would save us all a lot of time. I was going to get you burner phones but Skye said you like typing.”

“Gives me time to think,” he said softly. Then—“I’m guessing the mission’s not – it hasn’t – she’s not coming home soon, then?”

“Not yet, Agent Fitz. So make sure you don’t say anything to distract her. We need her full focus on Hydra. But… what sets SHIELD apart from Hydra is our humanity, and I think I momentarily forgot that. I hope this makes up for it. ”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitz said dazedly, but Coulson was already headed to the door.

He sat with his hands a centimeter above the keyboard for a full minute.

 

_F: Hi._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I don't feel as solid about this chapter as the previous... Don't know if I tried to cover too much or if it just doesn't hang together right or what but... yeah. Apologies for that.   
> 2\. I know there's a lot of sensitive stuff in here with ability and ableism and whatnot, I tried to deal with it in a way that I felt was true to the characters (not always how it was dealt with on the show) but am v open to conversations about all that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't been feeling writing lately -- everything feels OOC and lifeless and trite (maybe because I haven't been able to watch the show in 10 months) and reading this fic back I kind of hated it but here's a third chapter hope it doesn't suck love yaz

Jemma was transparently terrified about her new, secret, digital liaison with Fitz – or she would have been, had she had anyone in her life whom she could clue in to her secret.

As it was, she flitted through her days simmering with private torment. She’d quickly decided that installing the messaging program – however well-encrypted – on her phone would be far too risky and distracting, so for the hours when she moved anonymously through the streets and meticulously through the lab, she acted as if nothing had changed.

But it _had_ , so much so she felt a bit out of orbit. And for the first time in her life Jemma found change terrifying. She had a chance to repair things with Fitz (maybe a last chance, certainly at least one more chance than she deserved), and the route to a solution was infinitely more precarious than any of the work she did with volatile chemicals. What’s more, her first instinct was to compartmentalize: they could work on their friendship first, and only when that had re-solidified would she broach the subject of his submerged, death’s-door confession. (Who knew if he even still felt that way now? If the hypoxia hadn’t jarred some sense into him, her departure certainly would’ve done it.) But every line of their communiques was snarled in the unspoken. Perhaps their friendship couldn’t be so neatly extracted as she’d hoped. None of this was Fitz’s fault: he was upset, personally offended, deeply wounded to be sure, she’d expected as much and braced herself for it; but he didn’t once mention anything remotely romantic. And his pointed omission of the topic was _maddening_.

Hence, terrifying.

And yet. At minuscule moments – seeing the smear of fingerprints on her wine glass, rifling through a volume of reports to unearth just one data point, accidentally purchasing a poppy seed bagel instead of sesame and realizing after a tentative bite that her tastes had changed – she felt a different thrill. Yes, this bizarre verbal tango she was doing with Fitz would probably scratch both of them raw, but in the aftermath, they’d have an opportunity few people ever got: to get to know one another again.

To relearn Fitz, to have him relearn her: the excitement of this prospect bubbled up in spontaneous smiles that had no place in a Hydra lab. Not that she felt post-hypoxia Fitz was markedly different from pre-hypoxia Fitz. Rather, they’d both changed immeasurably since they were sixteen, but there’d been no time to recognize the changes as they’d been too wrapped up together. Jemma would be the first to admit they tended towards codependence. And here they were, with their separate struggles, two distinct people, uniquely situated to start again.

When she returned home each day, Jemma usually lasted exactly one cup of tea and two and a half articles in the newspaper before she gave in and opened her laptop.

_J: Working on any interesting projects?_

Thank goodness she wasn’t actually visiting her parents: the time difference would’ve damn near killed her.

As it was, Fitz always answered quickly. Not right away, but soon enough that Jemma knew he’d seen the message immediately and made himself wait before responding.

_F: Not going to sell it to Hydra, are you?_

_J: Har har._

Her fingers twitched over the keyboard. With answers like that, she never knew to whom the responsibility fell to continue the conversation. She’d been rubbish at Tinder the one time Skye had forced her to try it out, the dialogues too impersonal to stir any interest in her. The same held true here: if Fitz were there with her in her sunny apartment, they could hash all this out in a well-deserved screaming, crying, hugging row that would last the better of the afternoon and leave them exhausted but the better for it. Instead they were tiptoeing through the mundane like two people on an awkward blind date.

Every day, though, it felt like they got just a _bit_ closer to confronting the elephant in their chatroom.

_F: Cloaking was a big hit, thanks for the help on that one._

_J: If by help you mean clerical assistance, it was my pleasure_

_F: Felt like a right idiot, though. I designed the bloody filing system, I should remember how to work it_

_J: That was my third PhD, didn’t I tell you? Don’t be so hard on yourself._

She smiled to herself, leaning her cheek into her palm. For all that it felt like talking to a stranger, she could picture the little scoff he’d emit at that and the determined expression on his face as he typed back.

The first thing that appeared was an attempt at a rude emoticon, which she only deciphered after tilting her head this way and that.

_F: Mack needs me for something, gotta go_

Jemma sighed and pushed away from the table, rubbing at the side of her neck. It was always like that. She had the whole evening free – no friends, no papers to work on from home – and he got called away to do something no doubt thrilling and important and destined to save the world.

 

Shortly after she finished her lukewarm freezer pizza, Jemma’s computer pinged again.

_F: Mack says hi._

“Hi, Mack,” Jemma whispered automatically into the silence of her apartment, typing the same as a reply. Someday she’d thank this mysterious Mack for all he’d done for Fitz. He was a mechanic, not a field agent, and from what Fitz recounted Jemma had formed a mental image of a short, older man, probably with a potbelly which he’d joke was full of wisdom.

_F: He agrees three PhDs is excessive_

_J: Your new friends are corrupting you_

_F: Yeah_

Jemma winced. New friends. Even to her, reading it back, it sounded petty. She was _happy_ for him, _truly_. It was good that they have strong friendships with people other than each other.

 _J: Wish I had new friends_ , she continued, as an apology but also in painful truth.

_F: They could’ve been your friends too_

_J: Yes, well, could’ve would’ve should’ve_

_F: Real mature_

She hastened to type something more, not ready for the direction they were headed, but he was quicker, brain injury be damned.

_F: You’re glad you chose to go, then?_

There it was again, the woeful inadequacy of the written word to give him even a _glimpse_ of her thoughts. If he were here, he would see the scrunch of her brow and watch her flounder for words and her persistent war with herself would become clear.

After a long, tense minute staring at the blinking cursor, she began to type, quickly but methodically.

_J: I still think it was the right choice. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, and that doesn’t mean I don’t spend half my time here regretting it._

Her forefinger trembled over the Enter button. For all the years they’d spent impossibly platonically intimate, _honesty_ about _feelings_ was not something that came naturally to them, as a unit or as individuals.

But she remembered her resolve to endure whatever pain or discomfort might be her lot. As penance for not being enough to help him, but also because it had never been in question that their friendship was worth every struggle or sacrifice.

Her answer started to fuzz in front of her eyes as she waited for his response.

_F: Well, at least you’re not longer telling me ‘it’s an important mission, I had to go to save the world,’ blah blah blah_

Jemma rolled her eyes. “It _is_ an important mission, one for which I am uniquely qualified,” she muttered, beginning to furiously type the same.

Again, he beat her to it.

_F: Mack tells me I need to just rip off the bandage and tell you what’s what_

_J: …Oh?_

_F: Yeah. And I think you took the mission because you were running away_.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. He thought—

_J: Running away from what?_

_F: From me._

_J: Don’t get a big head_

_F: You know what I mean_

She covered her eyes with a shaking hand. This was _not_ a conversation she wanted to have over instant messenger.

But it was happening. Whatever was about to happen, would happen. It couldn’t hurt any more than every second that had transpired since the pod.

She was wrong.

_J: I don’t think I do, actually. Can you be more explicit?_

And then it came in a torrent.

_F: You were running away from me because you’ve spent the last decade staking your career on our partnership, smarter together and all that, I was someone who can amplify your success and talent, and then after everything happened you either realized you’d been wrong all along or the hypoxia really did ruin me and you no longer needed me_

“What. The _fuck_?” Jemma shouted.

_F: And I can’t really blame you for bailing because I do seem pretty pathetic now, but I thought if the last ten years were even remotely real you’d have stuck around_

_F: We were bloody competitive at the Academy but we always laughed at those people who cared more about their reputation than their work or their friends but I think you ended up being one of them_

_F: Because I thought even if they had to fire me because I’m no use anymore, at least I’d still have you_

_F: But you think I’m useless too_

Jemma couldn’t move. She stared at the screen, his paranoid, scattered accusations burning against her retinas.

He thought –

He _actually_ believed –

Of all the conclusions he could’ve drawn, he thought she –

“Oh bloody hell no,” she snarled, because she had _not_ survived the Chitauri virus and shot a superior officer and carried Fitz to the surface and _gone to work for fucking Hydra_ only for the best friendship she would _ever_ have be derailed by a misunderstanding so colossal and, frankly, offensive.

She found herself wishing he had only thought she left because of his confession.

_J: !!!!_

_J: FITZ! Don’t you dare put words in my mouth. That’s not why I left and that’s not how I feel_

_J: I’m serious. You couldn’t be more wrong._

_J: Fitz, answer me, please_

_J: If you’ll just let me explain. No more beating around the thornbush, I promise._

_J: Fitz?_

_J: Fitz????_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tried a thing we'll see

Everything had been going swimmingly, Fitz thought, though of late swimmingly meant being hauled unconscious up to the surface and nearly dying, so perhaps that wasn’t the best way to phrase it. Admittedly tentatively reacquainting himself with Jemma did feel a bit like simultaneously drowning and coming up for air. But he’d thought, on the whole, that the overall movement was _forward_.

_J: Working on any interesting projects?_

Fitz grinned the second her first message popped up. He couldn’t help it: it was a reflex from years of working together, of associating every note, every text, every gushing phone call with a breakthrough or exciting story or otherwise bright moment in his day.

_F: Not going to sell it to Hydra, are you?_

Too fresh? It seemed like the kind of answer he’d have given in the past, back before – but that was the point of this exercise, to go _back_. Or forward. Or something.

_J: Har har._

“Cue the eyeroll,” Fitz muttered, but he knew better than to actually write that.

_F: Cloaking was a big hit, thanks for the help on that one._

He’d actually made a list, after their first chat. Feeling scattered, anxious, overwhelmed, shaking slightly from the thrill of prolonged contact with her, he’d sat on his bed for what felt like hours, thinking back through interactions they’d had – in good days and bad – and writing out what he thought they could work on. #4: Vocalize affirmation for assistance.

_J: If by help you mean clerical assistance, it was my pleasure_

_F: Felt like a right idiot, though. I designed the bloody filing system, I should remember how to work it_

_J: That was my third PhD, didn’t I tell you? Don’t be so hard on yourself._

“At it again?” Mack asked coolly, a slight smirk betraying him, as he entered the lab to find Fitz hunched over his laptop.

_F: Mack needs me for something, gotta go_

“Wha – no.” He denied it automatically, quickly clicking away from the chat and back to the work he was supposed to be doing. “What are you – I don’t know what you—”

“It pings, you know, every time you get a message,” Mack continued, as if Fitz hadn’t said anything. “Makes this annoying little noise. When I was here yesterday it was going haywire. So you can stop checking it obsessively.”

“I’m not obse – I’m _not_ ,” he said stubbornly as Mack chuckled.

“Must be a pretty cool chick, to have you this wound up.”

“It’s not that. Okay, it’s not _only_ that,” he hedged. “She’s – she’s – you haven’t met her, you can’t – she’s _Jemma_.”

For once he wasn’t sure if his difficulty had its origin in the hypoxia or the complexity of what he was trying to convey.

“So I’ve heard.” Mack shuffled the printouts he’d gathered from the far table, tapping them against his hand. “Just be careful, okay, Turbo?”

“It’s encry – It’s got a – it’s safe.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Mack squeezed his shoulder – Fitz winced slightly; sometimes Mack forgot that not everyone was as muscular as he – and left.

Fitz returned to the chat window. Jemma undoubtedly had more exciting plans for the evening than IMing him. Maybe he could lay off a bit. But he liked seeing their past conversations. As days passed and they talked more, he almost felt he could hear her voice in what she wrote, could attribute hand gestures she’d make if she were actually here, talking to him in person.

“But I _am_ here.”

His chin slipped off his hand and he pivoted too quickly in his chair and needed to grab the desk to keep himself from spinning away across the room.

Jemma – or, well, the piece of his brain that manifested as her, in her dark blue sweater and perfect ponytail – sat on the end of his lab bench, swinging her legs nonchalantly.

“Why do you need anything else?”

“You’re not here,” he muttered, scrubbing at his eyes. It had taken him long enough to recognize that, and he commended himself for not having a total breakdown upon the realization. Though, considering that he was still seeing his absent best friend following him around like a puppy and telling him all the things he couldn’t admit to himself, perhaps he shouldn’t congratulate himself too soon. “ _She’s_ not here.”

“But this is what you want, isn’t it?” She scooted closer, and Fitz jerked back before her hand could brush his. (Would he feel it? Did his delusion extend that far?) “You want me here, safe. You want us back on good terms. You have that. Why rock the boat?”

Why indeed? Fitz blinked at the screen, at Jemma’s last message from the night before, wishing him sweet dreams.

Real Jemma was messy. She got hurt and she hurt him. She was too bossy and she was at times brutally moralistic and she was a terrible liar and she had horrible taste in men and even worse taste in beer and sometimes she’d laugh while drinking it until a dribble would come out her nose and he’d tease her about it just so she’d hit his arm with her hand.

She was messy, yes. But she was warm and ridiculous and being with her, talking science with her, invigorated him like nothing else, sending a drumming of excitement through his veins and sparks through his mind.

“Because I don’t want – _this_ ,” he answered finally, waving at Imaginary Jemma. “I don’t want a plaything, a – a dream. I want her. I want my best friend.”

“Fitz,” Jemma whispered, her head just slightly tilted, her voice laden with soft pity. “I know you think that. But we both know you’re not brave. You hate risks. And this, what you’re doing, trying to ‘fix things’? That’s a risk.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped, pushing out of his chair to get some space from her. (To get space from his own mind – now that was _dark_.) “Of course I know it, I’m bloody talking to myself! But it’s not like I’m forcing her into anything. She’s just as interested in repairing things as we are – as _I_ am,” he corrected himself hastily, at which she smiled softly. “It’s too painful to keep this distance. We’re better together.”

“I almost believe you,” Jemma whispered, slipping off the desk a second before Mack reappeared in the doorway.

“Hey Turbo, I can’t wrap my head around this component you designed, can you talk me through it?”

Fitz hid his shaking hand in the giant pocket of his cardigan and nodded.

 

 

It was nearly nine o’clock before he had the lab to himself again. Jemma still hadn’t written anything, predictably. Maybe she was right – the imaginary version of her, that is. Maybe he was hanging on to something that had already disintegrated.

 _Mack says hi_ , he sent quickly, stubbornly, before he could tumble too deep into that abyss. _He agrees three PhDs is excessive._

Her answer was almost immediate, sending a little fluttery rush into Fitz’s stomach.

_J: Your new friends are corrupting you_

_F: Yeah_

_J: Wish I had new friends._

“And there you go,” she whispered, right next to his ear.

“That’s not what – she doesn’t mean—”

“You’re the past, Fitz. I’ll look at pictures of you fondly from time to time, but that’s where it ends.”

He shook his head rapidly, hoping she’d disappear.

_F: They could’ve been your friends too_

_J: Yes, well, could’ve would’ve should’ve_

“Yes, she seems _deeply_ affected,” his imaginary Jemma snorted, leaning her forearms against the back of his chair. “Clearly misses you terribly.”

_F: Real mature_

“Just ask her,” Jemma murmured. “Just ask _me_. You know you want to.”

He typed almost as if controlled by some external force.

_F: You’re glad you chose to go, then?_

“Bloody –“ He tried to delete the message but it’d already sent. He didn’t want to press too soon, too quickly. He deserved answers, he _knew_ that, but—

_J: I still think it was the right choice. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, and that doesn’t mean I don’t spend half my time here regretting it._

Well. He exhaled heavily. There was a good deal to unpack there, a million follow-up questions— And a rare glimmer of honesty. #2 on the list – open and truthful.

_F: Well, at least you’re not longer telling me ‘it’s an important mission, I had to go to save the world,’ blah blah blah_

“Honestly!” Jemma snorted, reaching for the keyboard, though he batted her away. “Would you stop beating around the bush?”

“These things take finesse!” he protested, even as he typed _Je_ , then backspaced and lied, _Mack tells me I need to just rip off the bandage and tell you what’s what._

“Of which you have bushels full, clearly.”

_J: …Oh?_

_F: Yeah. And I think you took the mission because you were running away_.

_J: Running away from what?_

_F: From me._

_J: Don’t get a big head_

_F: You know what I mean_

_J: I don’t think I do, actually. Can you be more explicit?_

“What are you waiting for?” Jemma prodded, jiggling his chair from behind. “This is your moment for your big declaration! That you love her, madly deeply truly, and that your love was too much for her but if she’d just come back—”

“I’m _not_ saying that.”

“But it’s true!”

“You’re jumping the gun.”

“And you’re a coward.”

“That’s not what this is all about anyway, okay?” he blustered, gesticulating towards the screen. “I’m not doing all this because of my stupid crush, which is mostly gone anyway, I’ll have you know. I just – I miss you. I miss my friend.”

“How do you know she’ll want to come back?” Jemma whispered, eyes shining with tears to match his. “She’s just trying to spare your feelings, Fitz. She can say it hurt, she can say she regrets it, but she still _left_. She left _you_.”

Fitz’s throat constricted with a sob he’d not known was lodged there.

“No—”

 “You put in a good effort,” she continued soothingly, smoothing back the hair from his forehead like a worried mum. “You tried your best to fix things. But it’s not enough. You can love her, you can care for her, you can respect and admire her to the moon and back, but ultimately, you’re not _enough_ , Fitz. Not as a partner, not as a friend, and certainly not as a lover.”

His resolve shattered – it didn’t erode, it didn’t crumble, it exploded as the pressure of weeks of pretending to be _fine_ reached the highest tolerable level.

“I know,” he whispered, bowing his head. “I think I’ve always known.”

The words came out as if they’d been hovering in his heart since he’d learned she’d gone.

_F: You were running away from me because you’ve spent the last decade staking your career on our partnership, smarter together and all that, I was someone who can amplify your success and talent, and then after everything happened you either realized you’d been wrong all along or the hypoxia really did ruin me and you no longer needed me_

_F: And I can’t really blame you for bailing because I do seem pretty pathetic now, but I thought if the last ten years were even remotely real you’d have stuck around_

_F: We were bloody competitive at the Academy but we always laughed at those people who cared more about their reputation than their work or their friends but I think you ended up being one of them_

_F: Because I thought even if they had to fire me because I’m no use anymore, at least I’d still have you_

_F: But you think I’m useless too_

And then he shut the laptop, burrowing his head in his arms and crying until even the Jemma he imagined left him too. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry frandz


	5. Chapter 5

Jemma felt entirely out of body in the days following Fitz’s silence.

She’d always prided herself on rationally categorizing the components of her life to allow herself to continue working when she’d had a row with her beau of the moment, to be wholly present in a relationship even when things weren’t panning out at work, and so on. She was still human, of course, and couldn’t keep stress isolated to certain hours of the day, but she was very disciplined and generally successful.

But there were several variables for which she’d not accounted when she first developed this system as an ten-year-old at her first year of university.

Firstly, she’d certainly never expected to be working for Hydra. She’d barely known what Hydra was at the time, might’ve heard the name in old news reels or seen it mentioned in conjunction with Agent Carter in history books but certainly thought of it as past. She never imagined she’d be a field agent, let alone a _double_ agent, working for an organization she didn’t support, lying to everyone she met, doing work whose nefarious uses she could only envisage with dread. It all made healthy compartmentalizing rather tricky.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, she’d never counted on Fitz. She’d never imagine someone could be so wholly a part of _every_ part of her life. He was her work partner, her best friend, her confidant, her… well. It was impossible to keep him out of any one aspect of her mind when he lived in its every corner. And during her time at Hydra, she’d become so dependent on the memories of him, on the thought of him getting better without her, and recently on his communiques, that his sudden silence left an echoing, painful emptiness rattling around her head and a pressure squeezing in her chest.

She shook her head at herself, walking down the hallway to her apartment on the verge of tears. She had no right to mourn him. He was well shot of her, if she was being honest with herself. If he honestly believed half the terrible things he’d said when last he’d written, she’d been making him miserable for a long time.

She felt it the instant she opened the door to her apartment. She’d become accustomed to the signs of presence with Coulson’s occasional visits, as well as her heightened senses due to a near-constant state of panic about being found out. There was a different charge to the air, little breaks in the silence of the apartment, something off about the shadows.

Someone was there, waiting in the dark for her to come home.

She shut the door as normally as she could, knowing they’d have already heard her come in, but didn’t turn on the lights. It couldn’t be Coulson: he’d visited just a few days before, it was far too soon for another check-in.

Holding her breath, she slid a hand into her purse. One or two people she could take by surprise; more than that, she’d be outnumbered and out-trained.

In one movement, she flung her purse to the far side of the living room doorway as an auditory distraction, pivoted around the corner, and brought the gun up to the eye-level of the intruder.

“W-Wot the _hell_ , J-Jemma!”

Jemma knew how it felt to be walloped by the weight of the ocean, and that had _nothing_ on the feeling of being struck in the chest as her eyes adjusted to take in Fitz, standing in her living, thinner than she’d last seen him, hands raised in front of his face, going cross-eyed as he looked at her gun.

“ _Fitz?”_ she whispered, entirely unable to process his presence. Then – “Fitz!” she gasped, dropping the gun and flinging herself at him, grappling for purchase on his back as she tried to smoosh herself completely against him, to fuse herself with him so that even should he Disapparate or vanish into thin air or be sucked into an alternate dimension, she’d go with him.

“Hey,” Fitz chuckled, encircling her more tentatively. “Hey, J-Jemma.”

He said it like he was testing her name out, like it’d been a while since he’d use it. Jemma drew back to get a proper look at him, hands hovering a half-inch from his face – more stubble than he used to wear, and something more serious about the eyes – before smoothing along his shoulders. “I could’ve shot you,” she scolded, lips trembling.

“Would’ve been my own f-f – my own doing, giving you a fr—a shock like that.”

“Nonsense,” Jemma said firmly, and wiping hastily at a first tear she turned – one hand still on his shoulder – to turn on the light. “What were you supposed to do, meet me at work? Come, sit—”

They lowered themselves to the edge of the couch, neither seeming able to look away. Jemma reached out again to touch his cheek and the hair over his ear. His eyelids fluttered a bit with every touch, as if he too were dazed at the contact. She laughed breathlessly, feeling a fool. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

He smiled shyly. Once, she thought forlornly, he’d’ve laughed as well, or at least shown his teeth in a crooked grin that made grannies melt. She wondered if that laugh would ever return, or if it wasn’t meant for her anymore.

“What are you – how did you – it’s so unsafe, Fitz,” she said, not knowing where else to start. “You could’ve – if someone—”

“I followed Coulson the last time he came to v-vi-vis—to see you. Watched his route, confirmed all the protoc—protoc—” He winced and clenched a fist, which Jemma quickly covered with her hand, moved more by the feeling of his tensed skin than at the anger therein. “Saw what he did. So I could do it too.”

“That’s quite some spywork, Agent Fitz.” She squeezed his fist. “SHIELD should give you a raise. But I – not that I’m not glad to see you, but –” His face fell instantly and she rushed to clarify. “It’s still so dangerous, Fitz. We’ve no idea how well my cover is being kept, and if someone saw us together, or tracked you here, or sees you leave—”

“Had to know,” he interrupted her. “I couldn’t – I couldn’t think clearly – it wasn’t right,” he pressed on, and she could see that someone had been working with him, encouraging him to persist in finding the right idea even if he had to change his words. Her heart burned with jealousy of and gratitude to that person.  “Talking to you on the computer, it didn’t – I wasn’t always – I had a hard time telling what was real,” he admitted, waving a hand about near his temple. “I know that sounds m-mad—”

“It doesn’t,” she assured him, smiling at him despite the tears on her cheeks. “You sound like the sanest person I’ve talked to in months. Honestly, Fitz.”

“R-right,” he nodded, obviously not totally believing her. “So. I was hoping we could talk about—”

“Not – not just yet,” she interrupted him quickly, wrapping her hands around his wrists protectively. (Was it her own hold on him she was protecting, or his pulse, his lifeforce that she’d once felt still?) “Do you mind if we just… have a cup of tea? Sit here and have some tea and just… I don’t know, be together, for a bit, before we dive in?”

“Unfortunate choice of w-words,” Fitz said, and when Jemma frowned at him he smiled again, that little tentative half-smile. “C’mon, Jemma, I know I have trou—diff—a hard time finding words, but you have the whole language to choose from you and come up with _dive in_?”

“Oh, _really_!” Jemma tutted, standing and rumpling his hair.

Shaking her head, she sashayed to the small kitchen unit, put the kettle on, and rifled through her tea collection. On an impulse, she glanced over her shoulder: Fitz was sitting on her couch, knobby knees pressed to the edge of the coffee table, head bent to examine the bouquet of dried flowers. Her heart did a funny little swoosh, like an acrobat on a trapeze; it just felt so impossibly _right_ to see him there, to think of him as _her_ Fitz on _her_ couch.

Dropping the box of rooibos to the counter, she rushed back into the living room and hugged Fitz about the neck before he even had a chance to look up.

“Oof,” he let out against her stomach, where his face was pressed.

“I – I missed you, Fitz,” she managed. She released him, her whole face flushing with embarrassment. They’d always been close, but this kind of… obvious emotion, open caring, was not their way. But she wanted it to be. “I – I know that’s a silly thing to say—”

“No.” Fitz shook his head fervently. “It’s not. I’m really plea—really glad you said it.”

“Right,” she whispered. She hesitated a moment longer, not wanting to leave his side.

Her hands shook as she measured out a few extra spoonfuls of sugar for his tea. (The rest of the team had no doubt been giving him too little, the poor man.) It wasn’t just having Fitz back, so close, that had her all giddy and a bit of a mess. It was the thought that since they’d joined SHIELD, so many things had tried to separate or hurt them. And two people who would fight for their friendship as much as they did, who’d sacrifice and risk so much for each other and for their relationship, surely two such people would always find a way back together. And maybe, down the line, when they’d begun to tease out the knots in their hearts, they could even find something more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this I think I intended to write beyond this, to actually show more of their healing: there's so much in our hearts as viewers that needs to be addressed, so many unspoken unresolved issues from this era -- maybe they were resolved off-screen, but I think I hoped to delve into it more here. But I'm out of energy/emotional movement for this fic and want to end it so I can feel free. Haha hope you imagine where it might go next, if it so moves you.


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